the sands. The girl was one more stumbling figure in the line. The golden chain riveted to her ankle ring connected her to the girl before her, and she was the last in the slaveline. The column stretched out before her, the shapes of the farthest women wavering in the heat-haze lifting from the tropical sand. Around the column went the slavemasters, sitting comfortably on the heavy Karhsaamian saddles of their sturdy horses. Like Ra’alla, they were dressed uniformly in black silk and armed with curved sabers; in addition, now, they carried three-tongued flails of knotted leather. The flakes were used to urge on those captives too weak, or too obstinate, to match the pace of the chief slavemaster, around whose saddlehorn was wound the end of the golden slavechain.
The girl cursed him as she marched, matching each step with an obscenity. But she kept pace and never felt the lash: there was little point in fighting the inevitable. Until some chance offered itself.
They marched throughout the long morning, halting at noon to rest and drink. No food was given them, and little water; just enough to keep them alive and capable of movement, though skin shades were set up to protect them from the burning sun. They waited until a second slavetrain joined them. This one was comprised of men, mostly Ishkarian and Xandronian males, though the girl glimpsed the odd blond hair of a Kragg riever amongst them, and a few black-skinned Slys. The outriders were much thicker around that train, restless horsemen pacing the line with lances and sabers drawn, and the three-tongued flails fell heavier across the shoulders of the men.
When the sun shifted downwards they started out again, the new line of marchers held a good half kli from the women. They moved through the afternoon, halting at sun’s set to eat and rest through the cold night.
The girl woke with a strange luminescence paling her face. It appeared as though the moon had come down to the earth and lit her with a cold radiance that both excited and stilled her. She was unable to move her limbs, and when she cried out there was no stirring among the watchful guards. She felt curiously warmed, as though bound in heavy furs, and she could not draw her gaze from the strange light.
She closed her eyes, assuming that she dreamed. And a voice came in to her mind.
Tomorrow, it said, be ready. You are chosen, and you shall be free. When the time comes, move fast. The Black One will help again, but most depends on you. The when of it, I cannot give you; the certainty, I promise. Be ready.
She turned restlessly, images of revenge seeping through the fibres of her mind, filling her with a comforting warmth that slid her back into sleep whilst leaving the message imprinted stark upon her consciousness.
She woke warm while the others shivered from the night’s chill, and ate a breakfast of porridge and water, rising to her feet while the others still slumped in the chains, unwilling to go on until the eunuchs applied the flails.
They marched as they had on the previous day, but now the girl paced eagerly over the hot sand. She could no more explain why than she could understand the curious certainty of her message. She only knew that she must. It was, she thought, as though one of the ghost-priest of Kharwhan had spoken to her, a sorcerous demon-being from the Isle of Ghosts. One of the lost ones whom people said were evil or good, according to the turn of their fortunes. She, though, knew the voice had filled her with hope: it was good. Why, she could not say; only know that she must walk ready.
When the sun was preparing to settle beyond the ridge of the farther dunes she knew why.
A dark-fletched arrow took Ra’alla from his saddle, choking him on his life’s blood as he pitched down with the shaft protruding from his chest. Three more slaveguards fell with the black shafts sticking from their bodies, and then the sand came alive with leaping figures.
They seemed to erupt from the